P
Poeta Perdido
Guest
Original poster
The Dunmer held tight as monstrous waves pummeled the hull. He stood beside the others without his tunic or armour with only a short scarf wrapped about his neck. Heavy clouds and rain stifled the rain, their path cutting the sea lit only by the moon above. A spray of sea foam and mist soaked him instantly. He peered back over the rudder of the ship, strangely convinced he might catch the mischievous assailant, but found only a small wave in the distance. The Dunmer slumped against the rail and exhaled as the Altmer, Gelberon appeared beside him. When he looked to the Gelberon, he found a mer in awe. The Dunmer glanced back to the horizon, but saw a wall of grey. His mouth fell agape.
"Wave!" Gelberon announced in a long shout. The Altmer grabbed the Dunmer by the shoulder, forcing them both down behind the rail. He looked to the Dunmer with a presumptuous eye natural to his people and drew close. "I trust you swim, iye Dark Elf?"
A sharp crack like that of a whip rang out. Sizzling next, like hundreds of arrows raining down onto the sea, and very soon after Juin found himself breathless. As a hand of the sea grasping above the ship's edge, so did the wave coil up and onto the hiding Dunmer and Altmer. Gelberon held tight to the rail, but Juin lost himself to the force of the wave. Arms spread, he clawed about, fingers desperate to find purchase. His burned from the salt and he saw little more than a grey haze. Another wave hit, rocking the ship, and sending the Dunmer rolling. On his belly, Juin instinctively grabbed the dagger from his belt. In a thoughtless motion he drove the blade into the wood and held with both hands. He held as the ship rocked, waves crashed, and a short while after. When finally he arose, the Dunmer met eyes with Gelberon. He sheathed his blade without word and returned to the rest of the crew holding down the ropes as the winds continued their assault. He spotted Sevari breathing heavily, chest exposed and flush from hard work. The Khajit shook his head, "We're still alive."
"No, no," Juin said, shaking his head vigorously. He sat across from Vylewen on deck with only his trousers, boots, and scarf on as before. "Dunmer do not worship them. We see the evil in their hearts quite clearly, but acknowledge the role it plays. Saint Vivec taught the notion of balance in the world. What is good without bad to define it? What is precious life without those to offer struggle and challenge? We do not worship those of the House of Troubles, but we recognize their worth." He looked about the ship and the strange fog surrounding them. Unsettling was too weak a word, he found his hands drawn toward his gear. "I'll admit, it's harder to see now and again."
Greylock announced another ship drifting amidst the eerie haze. Sharp eyes attempting to cut through, to find some clarity, but the captain saw little until Vylewen stood. The Dunmer heard the collective gasp as he readied himself and his weapons. A quick glance revealed a path of thinned fog. Interesting that her power should work so much, he thought, or is it so little? Then came the smell.
They pulled the mysterious ship close with metal hooks and wasted no time. Volunteers and sailors alike boarded, weapons ready and armour light. The Dunmer decided against anything more than a pauldron and boots. He recognized the metallic, intoxicating aroma in the air as soon as the fog parted. Stepping aboard the mystery vessel only reinforced this thought. No crew, but pieces. He looked over bits of chest and back, more often large portions of arm or leg scattered about, and blood everywhere. Below deck was no better. They spent a moment to collect septims thrown about, but the smell of death was heavy there. "Paints, Juin, let's accompany our lady back outside. We'll check the captain's quarters while we're there." No more words necessary. The volunteers continued until they came upon a door unlike the others. A carpenter's care focused here, and it was quite clear they stood at the door of the Captain's Quarters. "Do you know how to detect life?"
Juin shot a glance to the Knight of Colours immediately. A knowing look was shared, but no advice in the silence. The Argonian seemed concerned, but was it for the Dunmer's secret or what a beast might do to protect its own life? An accusation in a simple look. It was enough to draw the Dunmer's eye down to the sword in his hand. A ghastly, bone pommel and hilt that seemed to burn in his hand. Juin bit his bottom lip and met eyes with Vylewen as a pale light surrounded her faint skin. He thought he felt something pass over him, but focused on the lady. Finally, they locked eyes. Juin tilted his head and lowered his sword with a silent prayer in his mind. "I sense nothing. It's safe," the Snow Elf returned her attention to Sevari. "Maybe."
Sevari made short work of the door and led the way. A brash move, and how fitting that one might emerge too. A wild Altmer leapt from inside the room and onto Vylewen. The Dunmer leapt back, prepared to stab at the threat, but in the struggle he made out words. Besides, the initial shock on the pale Mer's face had faded into focus. This was conversation. Strange and ferral and short conversation. The wild captain stepped back, sat, and took in his own wounds, and like that, withered. As if the reminder was enough to cast out the spirit. As if a child fiddling with puppetry, in a way, but the thought broke to the sound of Sevari's voice. Aside from the questionably dead captain they'd found no others so well preserved. And yet, barrels of wine, bags of grain and other food seemed untouched. Like the ambush before, Juin thought the strange sight a warning and a chance to rearm.
"Why don't we help ourselves while we can, eh?"
"Let not a drop be wasted," Juin replied, voice distant. He turned and looked back toward the stairs leading below. "Allow me a moment to satisfy my curiosity first, though. I'll rejoin you shortly."
With that, the Dunmer stepped out from the Captain's Quarters and descended below deck once more. Light was low, but manageable. He sheathed his shortsword in exchange for his dagger in case someone, or something, escaped his Khajit comrades' eyes. Suddenly his bare chest felt more than a little vulnerable. The thought of a figure from the shadows plunging a blade into him seemed quite real. No leather to absorb the blow, no steel to blunt the bite. The way the sailors danced about shirtless on deck no longer seemed a freeing thought. In fact, Juin felt a fool for admiring them. He felt doubly foolish skulking about in the shadows below with little more than a pauldron and boots.
Juin explored in a crouch, weary of corners, eyes attentive. He placed his free hand on a wooden beam as he peaked around a nearby corner, dagger raised and ready. Yet, the room was free of guards or lurking assailants so far as he could tell. The Dunmer stood and slowly sheathed his knife. Ahead of him lay a door slightly ajar and a tanning rack at its side. There appeared to be a sign near the door, but the language foreign. As he neared he came upon a carefully laid sheet of a golden hue. His fingers ran across the surface of the sheet as he attempted to make sense of the sign. Turning the symbols in his thoughts, in the back of his mind, he wondered about the sheet. Supple and malleable like good leather, but gold. Juin took the same hand and curiously cupped his chin. His mind abandoned the sign, but faced another puzzle. Paints felt drawn to powerful and rich colours. Fabric offers little protection though, so what of a golden leather? He rubbed the smooth, hairless skin beside his nose. The idea seemed perfect, but what was it leather? Something felt especially smooth and oddly familiar. His hand returned to the sheet until his eyes widened.
Juinarto sat amongst the other soldiers surrounding a small fire. His body felt stiff waiting so long after days of marching and battle. Night had fallen already, and though each of them stared into the darkness all around, none made out any sign of their scouts' return. A few hours of no signs or signals. The men grew restless and agitated. Camp would not be set without the order, yet, for whatever reason, their officer left along with the scouts. Morthal to the east was only salt in the wound.
"The pompous bastards. Lucky we're soldiers, them, otherwise I might show'em what disrespect earns'em. Might still if the esteemed Knife Ear don't return soon. Who else?" said one soldier, a Cyrodiil lad only one year into his service. Juinarto paid him little attention.
"Soon? Feckin' nightfall, I'm tired, and only yesterday did I cut down six Stormcocks who'd gladly 'ave wiped out those Morthal shits. Bout ready to demand my fee. Juinarto, did you not take an arrow in defense of them only yesterday? Cut down a good numbuh too, aye? An' you too, Simeon, showed them terrorists a true Redguard sword work," came another, more seasoned of the lot. Worse, Juinarto considered him a friend. His soft words wooed any who'd listen, it seemed, as even the Dunmer had to admit a warm bed sounded quite appealing. "What say you? They reject their Imperial protectors an' treat us like street trash? Say, I suspect Morthal a Stormcock base. An' you, Juin?"
The Dunmer took a deep drink from his mug and eyed the crowd. About a dozen of them sat around the modest hearth on stumps and stones mostly. Their armour needed mending from two days of open combat, but surely good enough for a small siege in the night. What worried him was the fervour, though. Of the dozen, only two Nords sat among them, and even them southerners hailing from Falkreath and the burned Helgen. Otherwise, these were men and women with no more love for the lands than they were given. Tired, jestful talk actually might turn to bloodshed. Or so Juinarto feared.
"Fools, them Morthal bastards. But is a warm bed worth the court martial and hanging we'd surely receive? Say we roll our way into the hold. A proper night raid, kill the guards at the gates with arrows first and strike fast before the next patrol smells blood on the wind. Then we catch some street peddler. Then we catch a whore. What then?" Juin glanced to each one of them, sure to meet eyes. "Ah, yes, we kill them! No warnings after all. So we've killed the guard, I'd say maybe half dozen by now, and two street-folk for good measure. Wager more guard have arrived by then. Don't know about you lot, but I'm rather tired, so I suppose one of us may fall in the fight. I reckon our greenhorne from Cyrodiil myself. But we kill them too, the guard. And a few more merchants who've heard metal ring by now. We strike them all down, I suppose, and mosey our way into the nearest inn? They rejected us before, they die too then, yeah? By night's end we lay in our stolen beds in the blood of innocents with our names on some Brotherhood death list and our superiors hungry to hang us first. Is this what you say? Do these knife ears serve me well?"
The Cyrodiil lad stood immediately where the others grunted or returned attention to their rations and drink. No, the young soldier showed his age as he drew his gladius and gave a wicked smile. He seemed proud of himself, but Juinarto was simply astonished.
"I don't take lip from your kind, elf. You'd stop us? A Stormcloak among us, then!" announced the lad as he rounded the fire and leveled his blade toward the Dunmer.
All the others shook their heads and stepped back. The Redguard and Juinarto's foolish friend met eyes with the Dunmer, but he shook his head and drew his own weapon in response. The Dunmer raised into a low crouch with his gladius pointed back toward the greenhorne. Both donned their boiled leathers with little mind to their legs and biceps. Neither wore helmets either, and from he'd seen of the youth in war, the opening would not be missed. Juinarto sidestepped away from the fire, stumps, and stones. He did so until his back faced the darkness surrounding and the young soldier's faced the others. Yet, the younger paid seemed to pay it no mind. Too busy feining strikes with his crooked smile. Finally, the boy swung full force, his blade arcing toward the Dunmer's left rib. Juinarto leapt back and parried, then as soon as his feet met the ground, he shot his left boot straight into the lad's gut. The boy suffered the blow too long and invited a final strike. In a proper war, maybe, but Juinarto held back the temptation. The young Imperial regained his composure shortly. Wasting no time, he charged for the Dunmer, and mere feet away, jumped high with his gladius raised over head. Once again, a flashy move. Juinarto brought up his own sword with both hands and absorbed the strike. This time, the Dunmer drove a shoulder into the boy, pushing him back, and inadvertently crushing his nose with his own head. Blood streamed down the Imperial's face, his wild and sinister smile worsened by the shocking red, but he did not relent. The youth persisted with a flurry of uncontrolled strikes. Juinarto dodged what he could and blocked the rest. They were weak attacks, thoughtless, all until the boy drove his blade straight toward the Dunmer's neck. The elf moved to dodge, but too slow, felt the cold steel slice his cheek. Worse, the look on the boy's face seemed that of an appetite far from sated. Juinarto charged ahead with his enemy's gladius still beside him and swept his sword across the lad's legs. The steel caught the boiled leather boot, pulling the leg back, and sending the Imperial down onto his chest. He hoped the sudden shock might sober the youth's mind. Might deliver a moment of reason, but the Dunmer knew enough now to step back in case his expectations were too great. Indeed, as his boot crunched against the brush, the boy rolled onto his back and threw a hand of dirt and pebble. A small cloud raised, but only a little debris made it so far as the Dunmer's eyes. Next, the youth began to swing all about as if keeping a mob of demons at bay. Juinarto merely watched from some feet away. Watched long enough for the boy to tire, though his cruel expression did not relent. As the pointless strikes weakened and slowed, the Dunmer saw an opening and struck. Juinarto sprinted toward the Imperial lad and in that very motion drove his boot into his stomach with full force. The boy coughed hard and deep. His grip loosed on the gladius, but the Dunmer kicked it from his hand all the same. Finally, Juinarto crouched low next to the Imperial.
"Because you are new, I will leave you with this lesson. You are an outsider in Nordic lands, fighting against an assembly of Nords. By virtue of being Imperial, you are hated. Yet fortune smiles, as you have comrades of many creeds who'd gladly support you in this foreign place. Make enemies amongst these comrades and you are sure to die. Your petty resentments mean nothing to me, s'wit. Here, you are like me."
The Imperial held his side with one arm, but feebly reached for Juinarto's cheek with the second. His smile seemed to glow a menacing red in the light of the fire, and he gave a throaty retort, "I ... I will skin you alive, Elf."
Juinarto allowed the boy to touch his cheek. He felt the dirt caked on his hand, moistened by sweat and blood, and waited as the Imperial's fingers made small circles about the Dunmeri tattoos. "With what?" the Dunmer finally replied, grabbing the hand firmly and placing it beneath his boot. He pressed until he felt unnatural movement. "Did you feel that pop? I imagine it'd be quite painful to skin me after this. Now, s'wit, your other hand." Juinarto met the young Imperial's eyes coldly.
"Surely I've a little more room for you," the Dunmer whispered to himself, eying the small treat in a Sea of Ghosts.
"Wave!" Gelberon announced in a long shout. The Altmer grabbed the Dunmer by the shoulder, forcing them both down behind the rail. He looked to the Dunmer with a presumptuous eye natural to his people and drew close. "I trust you swim, iye Dark Elf?"
A sharp crack like that of a whip rang out. Sizzling next, like hundreds of arrows raining down onto the sea, and very soon after Juin found himself breathless. As a hand of the sea grasping above the ship's edge, so did the wave coil up and onto the hiding Dunmer and Altmer. Gelberon held tight to the rail, but Juin lost himself to the force of the wave. Arms spread, he clawed about, fingers desperate to find purchase. His burned from the salt and he saw little more than a grey haze. Another wave hit, rocking the ship, and sending the Dunmer rolling. On his belly, Juin instinctively grabbed the dagger from his belt. In a thoughtless motion he drove the blade into the wood and held with both hands. He held as the ship rocked, waves crashed, and a short while after. When finally he arose, the Dunmer met eyes with Gelberon. He sheathed his blade without word and returned to the rest of the crew holding down the ropes as the winds continued their assault. He spotted Sevari breathing heavily, chest exposed and flush from hard work. The Khajit shook his head, "We're still alive."
* * *
"No, no," Juin said, shaking his head vigorously. He sat across from Vylewen on deck with only his trousers, boots, and scarf on as before. "Dunmer do not worship them. We see the evil in their hearts quite clearly, but acknowledge the role it plays. Saint Vivec taught the notion of balance in the world. What is good without bad to define it? What is precious life without those to offer struggle and challenge? We do not worship those of the House of Troubles, but we recognize their worth." He looked about the ship and the strange fog surrounding them. Unsettling was too weak a word, he found his hands drawn toward his gear. "I'll admit, it's harder to see now and again."
Greylock announced another ship drifting amidst the eerie haze. Sharp eyes attempting to cut through, to find some clarity, but the captain saw little until Vylewen stood. The Dunmer heard the collective gasp as he readied himself and his weapons. A quick glance revealed a path of thinned fog. Interesting that her power should work so much, he thought, or is it so little? Then came the smell.
They pulled the mysterious ship close with metal hooks and wasted no time. Volunteers and sailors alike boarded, weapons ready and armour light. The Dunmer decided against anything more than a pauldron and boots. He recognized the metallic, intoxicating aroma in the air as soon as the fog parted. Stepping aboard the mystery vessel only reinforced this thought. No crew, but pieces. He looked over bits of chest and back, more often large portions of arm or leg scattered about, and blood everywhere. Below deck was no better. They spent a moment to collect septims thrown about, but the smell of death was heavy there. "Paints, Juin, let's accompany our lady back outside. We'll check the captain's quarters while we're there." No more words necessary. The volunteers continued until they came upon a door unlike the others. A carpenter's care focused here, and it was quite clear they stood at the door of the Captain's Quarters. "Do you know how to detect life?"
Juin shot a glance to the Knight of Colours immediately. A knowing look was shared, but no advice in the silence. The Argonian seemed concerned, but was it for the Dunmer's secret or what a beast might do to protect its own life? An accusation in a simple look. It was enough to draw the Dunmer's eye down to the sword in his hand. A ghastly, bone pommel and hilt that seemed to burn in his hand. Juin bit his bottom lip and met eyes with Vylewen as a pale light surrounded her faint skin. He thought he felt something pass over him, but focused on the lady. Finally, they locked eyes. Juin tilted his head and lowered his sword with a silent prayer in his mind. "I sense nothing. It's safe," the Snow Elf returned her attention to Sevari. "Maybe."
Sevari made short work of the door and led the way. A brash move, and how fitting that one might emerge too. A wild Altmer leapt from inside the room and onto Vylewen. The Dunmer leapt back, prepared to stab at the threat, but in the struggle he made out words. Besides, the initial shock on the pale Mer's face had faded into focus. This was conversation. Strange and ferral and short conversation. The wild captain stepped back, sat, and took in his own wounds, and like that, withered. As if the reminder was enough to cast out the spirit. As if a child fiddling with puppetry, in a way, but the thought broke to the sound of Sevari's voice. Aside from the questionably dead captain they'd found no others so well preserved. And yet, barrels of wine, bags of grain and other food seemed untouched. Like the ambush before, Juin thought the strange sight a warning and a chance to rearm.
"Why don't we help ourselves while we can, eh?"
"Let not a drop be wasted," Juin replied, voice distant. He turned and looked back toward the stairs leading below. "Allow me a moment to satisfy my curiosity first, though. I'll rejoin you shortly."
With that, the Dunmer stepped out from the Captain's Quarters and descended below deck once more. Light was low, but manageable. He sheathed his shortsword in exchange for his dagger in case someone, or something, escaped his Khajit comrades' eyes. Suddenly his bare chest felt more than a little vulnerable. The thought of a figure from the shadows plunging a blade into him seemed quite real. No leather to absorb the blow, no steel to blunt the bite. The way the sailors danced about shirtless on deck no longer seemed a freeing thought. In fact, Juin felt a fool for admiring them. He felt doubly foolish skulking about in the shadows below with little more than a pauldron and boots.
Juin explored in a crouch, weary of corners, eyes attentive. He placed his free hand on a wooden beam as he peaked around a nearby corner, dagger raised and ready. Yet, the room was free of guards or lurking assailants so far as he could tell. The Dunmer stood and slowly sheathed his knife. Ahead of him lay a door slightly ajar and a tanning rack at its side. There appeared to be a sign near the door, but the language foreign. As he neared he came upon a carefully laid sheet of a golden hue. His fingers ran across the surface of the sheet as he attempted to make sense of the sign. Turning the symbols in his thoughts, in the back of his mind, he wondered about the sheet. Supple and malleable like good leather, but gold. Juin took the same hand and curiously cupped his chin. His mind abandoned the sign, but faced another puzzle. Paints felt drawn to powerful and rich colours. Fabric offers little protection though, so what of a golden leather? He rubbed the smooth, hairless skin beside his nose. The idea seemed perfect, but what was it leather? Something felt especially smooth and oddly familiar. His hand returned to the sheet until his eyes widened.
- - -
Juinarto sat amongst the other soldiers surrounding a small fire. His body felt stiff waiting so long after days of marching and battle. Night had fallen already, and though each of them stared into the darkness all around, none made out any sign of their scouts' return. A few hours of no signs or signals. The men grew restless and agitated. Camp would not be set without the order, yet, for whatever reason, their officer left along with the scouts. Morthal to the east was only salt in the wound.
"The pompous bastards. Lucky we're soldiers, them, otherwise I might show'em what disrespect earns'em. Might still if the esteemed Knife Ear don't return soon. Who else?" said one soldier, a Cyrodiil lad only one year into his service. Juinarto paid him little attention.
"Soon? Feckin' nightfall, I'm tired, and only yesterday did I cut down six Stormcocks who'd gladly 'ave wiped out those Morthal shits. Bout ready to demand my fee. Juinarto, did you not take an arrow in defense of them only yesterday? Cut down a good numbuh too, aye? An' you too, Simeon, showed them terrorists a true Redguard sword work," came another, more seasoned of the lot. Worse, Juinarto considered him a friend. His soft words wooed any who'd listen, it seemed, as even the Dunmer had to admit a warm bed sounded quite appealing. "What say you? They reject their Imperial protectors an' treat us like street trash? Say, I suspect Morthal a Stormcock base. An' you, Juin?"
The Dunmer took a deep drink from his mug and eyed the crowd. About a dozen of them sat around the modest hearth on stumps and stones mostly. Their armour needed mending from two days of open combat, but surely good enough for a small siege in the night. What worried him was the fervour, though. Of the dozen, only two Nords sat among them, and even them southerners hailing from Falkreath and the burned Helgen. Otherwise, these were men and women with no more love for the lands than they were given. Tired, jestful talk actually might turn to bloodshed. Or so Juinarto feared.
"Fools, them Morthal bastards. But is a warm bed worth the court martial and hanging we'd surely receive? Say we roll our way into the hold. A proper night raid, kill the guards at the gates with arrows first and strike fast before the next patrol smells blood on the wind. Then we catch some street peddler. Then we catch a whore. What then?" Juin glanced to each one of them, sure to meet eyes. "Ah, yes, we kill them! No warnings after all. So we've killed the guard, I'd say maybe half dozen by now, and two street-folk for good measure. Wager more guard have arrived by then. Don't know about you lot, but I'm rather tired, so I suppose one of us may fall in the fight. I reckon our greenhorne from Cyrodiil myself. But we kill them too, the guard. And a few more merchants who've heard metal ring by now. We strike them all down, I suppose, and mosey our way into the nearest inn? They rejected us before, they die too then, yeah? By night's end we lay in our stolen beds in the blood of innocents with our names on some Brotherhood death list and our superiors hungry to hang us first. Is this what you say? Do these knife ears serve me well?"
The Cyrodiil lad stood immediately where the others grunted or returned attention to their rations and drink. No, the young soldier showed his age as he drew his gladius and gave a wicked smile. He seemed proud of himself, but Juinarto was simply astonished.
"I don't take lip from your kind, elf. You'd stop us? A Stormcloak among us, then!" announced the lad as he rounded the fire and leveled his blade toward the Dunmer.
All the others shook their heads and stepped back. The Redguard and Juinarto's foolish friend met eyes with the Dunmer, but he shook his head and drew his own weapon in response. The Dunmer raised into a low crouch with his gladius pointed back toward the greenhorne. Both donned their boiled leathers with little mind to their legs and biceps. Neither wore helmets either, and from he'd seen of the youth in war, the opening would not be missed. Juinarto sidestepped away from the fire, stumps, and stones. He did so until his back faced the darkness surrounding and the young soldier's faced the others. Yet, the younger paid seemed to pay it no mind. Too busy feining strikes with his crooked smile. Finally, the boy swung full force, his blade arcing toward the Dunmer's left rib. Juinarto leapt back and parried, then as soon as his feet met the ground, he shot his left boot straight into the lad's gut. The boy suffered the blow too long and invited a final strike. In a proper war, maybe, but Juinarto held back the temptation. The young Imperial regained his composure shortly. Wasting no time, he charged for the Dunmer, and mere feet away, jumped high with his gladius raised over head. Once again, a flashy move. Juinarto brought up his own sword with both hands and absorbed the strike. This time, the Dunmer drove a shoulder into the boy, pushing him back, and inadvertently crushing his nose with his own head. Blood streamed down the Imperial's face, his wild and sinister smile worsened by the shocking red, but he did not relent. The youth persisted with a flurry of uncontrolled strikes. Juinarto dodged what he could and blocked the rest. They were weak attacks, thoughtless, all until the boy drove his blade straight toward the Dunmer's neck. The elf moved to dodge, but too slow, felt the cold steel slice his cheek. Worse, the look on the boy's face seemed that of an appetite far from sated. Juinarto charged ahead with his enemy's gladius still beside him and swept his sword across the lad's legs. The steel caught the boiled leather boot, pulling the leg back, and sending the Imperial down onto his chest. He hoped the sudden shock might sober the youth's mind. Might deliver a moment of reason, but the Dunmer knew enough now to step back in case his expectations were too great. Indeed, as his boot crunched against the brush, the boy rolled onto his back and threw a hand of dirt and pebble. A small cloud raised, but only a little debris made it so far as the Dunmer's eyes. Next, the youth began to swing all about as if keeping a mob of demons at bay. Juinarto merely watched from some feet away. Watched long enough for the boy to tire, though his cruel expression did not relent. As the pointless strikes weakened and slowed, the Dunmer saw an opening and struck. Juinarto sprinted toward the Imperial lad and in that very motion drove his boot into his stomach with full force. The boy coughed hard and deep. His grip loosed on the gladius, but the Dunmer kicked it from his hand all the same. Finally, Juinarto crouched low next to the Imperial.
"Because you are new, I will leave you with this lesson. You are an outsider in Nordic lands, fighting against an assembly of Nords. By virtue of being Imperial, you are hated. Yet fortune smiles, as you have comrades of many creeds who'd gladly support you in this foreign place. Make enemies amongst these comrades and you are sure to die. Your petty resentments mean nothing to me, s'wit. Here, you are like me."
The Imperial held his side with one arm, but feebly reached for Juinarto's cheek with the second. His smile seemed to glow a menacing red in the light of the fire, and he gave a throaty retort, "I ... I will skin you alive, Elf."
Juinarto allowed the boy to touch his cheek. He felt the dirt caked on his hand, moistened by sweat and blood, and waited as the Imperial's fingers made small circles about the Dunmeri tattoos. "With what?" the Dunmer finally replied, grabbing the hand firmly and placing it beneath his boot. He pressed until he felt unnatural movement. "Did you feel that pop? I imagine it'd be quite painful to skin me after this. Now, s'wit, your other hand." Juinarto met the young Imperial's eyes coldly.
- - -
Juinarto stepped away from the tanning rack with a hardened heart. He could do little more than continue, and perhaps he'd find the ones resonsible as an added treat. He continued toward the door beneath the Altmeri sign and nudged the door, already ajar, open in full. The room was small and stunk of stale air, blood, and stool. He need not search for the source either, as an Altmer corpse, surrounded in a gellified and dark pool lay prominently splayed before him. Juin crouched beside the body a moment. Careful not to dirty himself, he plucked from the mess a silver dagger three-quarters of his forearm in length. He could make out bits of sinew and meat on the blade. The Dunmer took in the sight a moment before rising. Beside the corpse sat a desk covered in parchments and spilled ink. A few notes appeared unspoiled. He grabbed one that seemed a list in the same unfamiliar language as before. There was a book and purse as well, but the dimlit room and horrid stench was getting the better of him. He took only the list and returned to the larger space with the tanning rack. Only then did he notice the crates stacked about. Juin glanced to the list once more, noting a few bits lined out with corrections drought close beside. Inventory, maybe. Or bits more horrid acts against Merkind. He indulged his curiosity by prying open two crates using his dagger like a pry bar in light of his latest find. Darkness hid most within, but a careful hand revealed weapons of all sorts, older than any he'd seen before. Juin grabbed a particularly ornate and thin longsword. The weapon felt light and flexible. He knew neither Gelina nor Markain well, but perhaps one of the two would favour a blade so quick. If nothing else, the sword, the list, and so on would serve as examples for the rest of them. Arms nearly filled, Juinarto made his way back toward the top deck. Along the way he came upon a small table he'd paid no mind to before. His eyes lit up at the sight of the dried leaves and pipes.
"Surely I've a little more room for you," the Dunmer whispered to himself, eying the small treat in a Sea of Ghosts.